


Midnight Train

by fuckinsteverogers



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, angsty, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17407256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckinsteverogers/pseuds/fuckinsteverogers
Summary: The hate from the fandom of the man you love becomes too much and packing a bag and boarding the midnight train to D.C. is the best option you can come up with.





	Midnight Train

**Author's Note:**

> PEOPLE WHO SEND HATE TO THE SIGNIFICANT OTHERS OF THEIR FAVOURITE CREATORS ARE NOT FANS. THEY ARE SIMPLY ASSHOLES WHO BELIEVE THEY HAVE A CLAIM TO THESE PEOPLE BECAUSE THEY SPEND A LITTLE MONEY ON THEM AND SUPPORT THEIR STUFF. This was sort of random and I started writing it because I was listening to Sam Smith’s Midnight Train on repeat and crying, and I just felt the need to write some angst. I hope you like it, it also comes with post-watching Before We Go for the first time (Chris Evans’ directorial debut film) and loving it so much so, here’s the end result.

The bag you’d packed in a hurry is strung over your shoulder, you’re gripping the straps, looking up at the big screen of train times. It’s almost midnight and the station is still packed, full of people going places, full of happy people, but you’re standing in front of the ticket area, holding back the tears, holding back the emotions threatening to spill out.

It’d been a rushed decision, but the right one. 

You love him. The beautiful, brave, intelligent, uncharacteristically romantic man. 

You knew he’d be able to find you if he tried and the thought should frighten you, but somehow, standing here, clutching all your belongings that fit into the one bag, trying to pick a destination, you don’t think he’ll try and find you, respecting your decision like he respects everything you do.

You feel nasty, guilty, disgusting for leaving him the way you are, but it’s a selfish kind of love, putting yourself ahead of what he wants, what he wants you to be, what he wants from you.

You’d met him one night, running past him to get to work, and you ran straight into him, full-blown face-first into the man you’d be with for the next five years.

You’d hit the floor with a grunt, lifting your eyes to the towering man, watching him watch you.

“I’m so sorry,” You blubbered out. The embarrassment you showed only made him smile wide, offering his hand to help you up which you took graciously, not wanting to take your eyes off of the stunning man.

“It’s alright. Are you okay?” He asks, standing tall against your small figure. His eyes cast downwards to address your attire, classy with a hint of slut, which basically described your job in a nightclub downtown, serving drinks, trying to get tips.

“I’m fine. Are you okay though? I did run pretty hard into you,” You try to apologise, a pain grinding into your back from hitting the hard concrete.

“Yes, I’m fine. Very fine in fact as the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen just ran into me.” His words bring heat to your skin, arousal rising in your stomach as your eyes glint over his beautiful form; tall, fit, long brown hair fluttering around his face, blue eyes looking seductively down at you, and a gorgeous smile on his plush red lips.

“I hardly think I’m the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen,” You admit, ducking your head to hide your eyes from his, not willing to give away your self-consciousness in full. His chuckle fills your ears and it’s gorgeous, deep in his chest and so manly it strikes you like a lightning bolt of desire.

Ignoring your comment, the handsome stranger simply slips a hand up to your face, taking your cheek in his palm and drawing your eyes up to his finally. 

“Am I holding you up?” He asks, eyes concerned, obviously by your rushing to get to work. You nod to him in reply, feeling the soft skin of his hand rubbing against your cheek; not a man of hard labour, you note.

“I am going to work,” You tell him, smiling lightly at the concern.

“I mustn’t hold you up then, but for running so hard into me, I do request something from you,” He replies, nodding his head down to you, his hand still gracing your skin. 

Eyes widening, you nod, curious as to his request and scared all the same. He just looks down at you for a moment, taking in your beauty; wide eyes and flowy hair, completely unaware of your effect on him.

“Your phone number, if you’ll permit it,” He says and it’s the first time you notice the accent, and you wonder why you hadn’t picked it up earlier… British. The accent that would send you into a frenzy in moments and one that haunts your dreams.

“Of course,” You say, surprised and intrigued. He grins wide, letting go of your cheek in favour of pulling his phone from his pocket and hands it to you once it’s unlocked. You give him your number thinking he’ll never call you, thinking he’ll forget about you the moment you walk away, but he never forgot about you.

You got the phone call halfway through your shift, your phone buzzing in the confines of your apron and the number flashing as unknown, but you knew. 

It was him. With his British accent and wholly charming words with an invitation to dinner the next night. You never thought, going into the relationship with the kind-hearted man, that you’d be running, running away from him as fast as you can, selfishly leaving him sitting on the bed you both had shared so many memories in.

But when you met him, you never knew the implications of dating someone with such a public lifestyle, you didn’t even know his name until you met him at the restaurant. You didn’t know who he was until you went to the cinema with your friend a week after the second date to see this new film she had been ranting and raving about. When you saw his face plastered on the screen, his beautiful accent transformed into an American one, and his lips kissing a woman you didn’t recognize. 

You hit yourself for weeks for living under such a rock that it was embarrassing telling him that you had no idea what he did for a living, but that only made him love you more, that you liked him for him and not for his life.

To him, you were his princess… His dream come true, but to you, the world saw you as a burden, the woman that took the dreamy, single hunk, Tom Hiddleston off of the market. You were a plague that had to be rid of one nasty message at a time. 

It was okay. You were determined to stay because you loved him and he loved you, telling yourself it was worth it because you were so deeply in-love with his entire being, with every book he read, every word he said, every meal he made, every move he made, every role he got, and every glance he sent you. You love him for everything, for the way he only types with one hand and one finger from the other, how he tilts his head slightly when he watches movies, how he loves his tea, how he sprays his hands over his stomach when he lays down, how he snores, and how he always kisses you awake.

You tried to believe that the constant abuse was worth it because you had him, but then it all became too much. People finding your family, people that love him attacking the family of the person he loves just because they can. You tried to tell yourself that words don’t hurt because they don’t truly know you or your family.

But you never believed the lies you tried to tell yourself and the bags were packed before you could blink.

The note was the worst. How could you compile giving up five years into one note? But somehow, you wrote it and left it on the pillow, certain he’d see it.

_Dear Thomas,_

_I love you. More than anything. I know you won’t believe me after this, but I do, and I wish I was strong enough to be with you. I wish I wasn’t a coward. I hope one day you’ll forgive me, but I don’t expect you to._

_I wanted to stay, I really did, but this life isn’t for me, the constant surveillance, the hate from all the people to claim to love you; I told you that and I know you’d offer to leave it all behind to be with me, but you love what you do, and no person is worth more than your passion, your purpose, so I’m leaving and I’m not going to say you’ll never see me again, because you might, but for now, this is goodbye._

_I want to be Mrs. Hiddleston with every fibre of my being, but I’m not sure anymore if it’s worth my sanity._

_I love you, Thomas, and you’ll forever remain the love of my life._

You thought your best option would be to get on the train at Grand Central and go to your parent’s house, hide out there until your heart and his start to heal the cracks this has created. 

Looking up at the screen, you wonder if it’s too late to go back, wonder if he’s seen the letter, but you know he has, it’s almost midnight.

Joining the line, the guilt makes your eyes tear up, hating that he will most definitely be in pain because of you because you chose to walk away instead of asking him to try to stop the hate, but you knew how futile that’d be.

What surprises you the most is that your phone hasn’t rung, not once, not from Tom or any of his co-workers that’d no doubt try to convince you to come back. You don’t know whether it’s a good or a bad sign, maybe he’s taken the news fine, or maybe he’s done something stupid.

The latter thought makes your eyes widen, stopping for a moment to stare ahead and think. Maybe you should go back and make sure he is okay, but you know if you do, you’ll never leave, you also know that he isn’t that type of person, not the selfish type, unlike you.

But then there is no one separating you and the glass screen, and you walk forward to buy your ticket, aware of the permanence of the ticket, the implication behind it, even though the letter already sealed your fate.

You thank the attendant and leave towards the platform, walking down the steps, the bag heavy on your shoulders and so is the guilt. You left most of your life in that house, all your books, your laptop, the love of your life, but going away, seeing your family, it might bring back every bit of happiness his fans had taken away.

You board the train, taking your seat and wait for the departure. Whilst waiting, you take out your phone, looking down at the lack of notifications. You don’t know why it hurts so much to see nothing from him, maybe he wanted this, maybe he was waiting for it.

You can’t help but let a few tears streak your cheeks, overwhelmed with the thought that maybe he didn’t love you anymore, maybe he’d been harbouring these feelings for longer than you had, but you can’t dwell on it, can’t do it because you walked away, you could have stayed, but you didn’t. The pain is your burden to bear.

You put your phone down when a heaving man flies through the open doors of the train, he leans down, placing his hands on his knees, his back heaving up and down to catch his breath. You look at him, the flopping brown hair, the trimmed beard. 

“Tom?” You say when you see his face, turning towards you. His cheeks stained red and his eyes bloodshot, his hand clutching a crumpled piece of paper, and his face telling you exactly what he is feeling.

Utter heartbreak.

Standing from your seat, as the doors slowly shut and the train roars to life, Tom moves towards you, slowly, tentatively, and when he’s within inches of you, he pulls you, by your hips, directly into his chest.

“Never,” He begins, pressing his face into your hair, breathing in the scent that he adores. “Leave me again.”

“Tom,” You protest, pushing him back. You look up into his broken face, coming to terms with the selfishness of your actions. “I can’t.”

“If giving up acting, if leaving all of this, the public eye and living a secluded life with you, the love of my life, my future wife, then I will without hesitation,” Tom continues, gripping your face between his hands. “Nothing is more important to me than you.”

You shake your head, baffled by his words. How could he give up all that for you? Who are you to ask him to do that?

“A weekend trip to D.C. where I’ll ask your father permission to make you my wife,” Tom says, and it feels like a finality. You mind is made up the moment he says it, and you feel so stupid for leaving, for leaving him behind, for thinking your life would even be bearable without him.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” You say, moving forwards to wrap yourself around him, holding him like you never thought you would again. He buries a hand in your hair, feeling you against him, the woman he loves, the woman he never wants to live without.

“You were scared. I’ll make the hate stop. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with me, and if they can’t accept it, then this life isn’t worth it.” The train begins to move and you begin to cry, Tom wraps his arms around you and holds you hard against him.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask when your sobs begin to falter and Tom laughs, deep and manly in his chest.

“You have find my phone on,” He says simply and you laugh too. Just like that, Tom’s outsmarted you and practically asked you to be his wife all in one conversation and you’re with him until death do you part.


End file.
